


guess I'm dreaming again

by charleybradburies



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Bottom Jon Snow, Canon Era, Coitus Interruptus, Coming Out, Drama, Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Jon Snow, Gay Sex, Holding Hands, Husbands, Kissing, Love Triangles, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Other, POV Jon Snow, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Political Alliances, Political Jon Snow, Politics, Possessive Sex, Season/Series 08, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Sex, Unrequited Crush, and again with the sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charleybradburies/pseuds/charleybradburies
Summary: In which Dany's attempt to see Jon after the feast celebrating the Battle of Winterfell is foiled because he's already enjoying that time with his actual love.Title from Paramore's 'crushcrushcrush'.[Note: not pro-Daenerys or pro-Jonerys content.]
Relationships: Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	guess I'm dreaming again

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos and comment if you like it and/or have thoughts about it! Thanks for reading!

The feast is enjoyable enough, surely not the worst event Jon's ever sat through. He's still uncertain of his place at the high table, but he spends half the evening urged on to drink, surrounded most closely by Sansa and Davos and Tormund and it's _good_ , almost fun, even when they seem intent to embarrass him in front of his - _his family's_ \- people, even though Daenerys is still near him, brimming with displeasure, even though Arya, the savior of everything, has decided to stay away. But even if the feast had been as stellar as possible, he'd know it would not compare to _after_.

After - after he'd said his goodnights and dismissed himself, when there was only one person who expected anything of him, when he was a _pretty little crow_ , when he was just Jon, when he could bask in an intimacy barely rivalled by anyone, something completely different from his familial relationships, but unconditional still.

After Gendry has accepted Daenerys' dangerous offer of legitimacy with confusion and fear, and subsequently left. After half the alcohol in Winterfell's been drunk, and even Sansa, his ever-cautious sister (for she still was his sister), has the blush of a wine's warmth. After Daenerys has left, fuming at everyone else's enjoyment though she'd done precious little to enjoy herself. After Tormund has exhausted himself cheering about Jon and Arya and Brienne (who is Ser Brienne, now, and none among those who loved the Starks would or could forget that) and excuses himself, and Sansa wishes him a good night and then promptly glances to Jon knowingly. Wise as she is, she doesn't _say_ anything to him until he, too, pretends he's tired enough to retire for the night. (He _is_ tired, though, so tired. Always tired. He thinks it was the dying. So much of life, now, was due to the dying.)

(And yet, as his love can and proudly does attest, Jon is very much a living man.

A living man with fears and needs and desires and loves and weaknesses - and finally, _finally_ , some _release_.)

And, thank the gods who had blessed him, who had taken vows from him, conflicting and human and holy: a level of release was something he was able to expect with some regularity, albeit not always to the extent Jon might want, or the acknowledgement. He was unable to be _publicly_ as he was, both to avoid contempt and to maintain his refusal to bind his siblings to any political marriages, and it pained him. To be a married man only in the eyes of his husband's culture, for the sake of his kingdom, the one whose rule he had sacrificed for its safety, weighed on him heavily. 

But in the dim candlelight of his chambers, after he's escaped the vibrant revelry, he feels a different weight; he can be reminded of why he has let himself be caught in the middle as he is. For he _knows_ , he knows, how much his home and his family mean to him, but Tormund is home and family, too; and he needs, he _needs_ , the physical force of being grabbed upon entry to his room, pushed against the wall next to the door before the door is even closed, drawn into a hungry kiss and grasped tightly by his waist. Jon needs, ever so desperately, his husband's hands touching him, holding him, pulling at his clothes; he needs the feel of his own hands roaming Tormund's already-naked chest, relishing his comforting warmth as his weight presses Jon into the wall.

The hasty grasps they both make at Jon's clothes are a welcome change from even the more enjoyable aspects of being front and center at a feast. He's glad to notice the fire crackling in the background, his cloak from Sansa laid across the back of the chair at the hearth and some of Tormund's clothing laid on its seat. He'd plan for more to follow, but their movements are hurried and he doesn't particularly care enough about any other article of clothing he owns to ensure it goes anywhere but the floor.

Jon moans into their kiss as it deepens, and appreciates Tormund's ability not to lose himself in the singular act, instead managing to continue undressing Jon, until Jon's entirely naked and being guided to bed by his half-hard cock - only realizing with desperation that Tormund's breeches are still on his legs when he sits down on the edge of the bed. Jon starts to try to reach further into his lap, but one of Tormund's hands makes its way around his arse to rub its fingers against his hole, and any focus Jon imagined having swiftly disappears. He lifts a leg to the bed, leaning in clearly enough that Tormund scoots back to let Jon straddle his lap; Tormund pulls away from their kiss and meets a deep whine in response, but promptly offers a couple fingers of his free hand instead, which Jon's mouth also reaches for greedily. 

"That's my good little crow," Tormund purrs, running his hand over Jon's arse and then giving just enough of a slap to one of Jon's cheeks that Jon's reflexive moan can surely be felt in the fingers being sucked. Just desperate enough to push past his own focus, Jon strains a hand downwards for Tormund's breeches again. His husband smacks a kiss to his forehead and stands them both up, no protest to be given as Jon pulls away the rest of the clothing that remains between them, only oil to be reached for in the trunk by the bed. 

Tormund guides them still, two of their hands clasped as he lays down on his back and welcomes Jon's body atop his. 

"A proper throne for a king," he murmurs, a jest in between wet kisses. 

"I'm not a king anymore," Jon returns easily enough.

"The lack of kneeling had me fooled, little crow," Tormund continues, soft and still teasing. "Too pretty a lord, you are."

"Let Sansa play the pretty lord - let me be free," Jon groans, and gets no reply in words, just another deepening kiss and a hand wrapped around both their cocks. He in turn answers that with dizzy thrusts, at least until he feels far too close too soon and pulls himself away and down the bed. 

Jon pushes to his knees, leaning over his lover with just the right angle to kiss down Tormund's chest to where he really wants his mouth to be. Tormund's hands push into his hair, undoing its band and then keeping it from becoming entirely too unruly in the aftermath, tightening around the locks as Jon's tongue makes calculated strokes against Tormund's pelvis, moving from hips to balls to cock - frankly, too slowly for either of them, but with a rhythm and intensity that Jon can't quite bring himself to break until he hears Tormund fumbling in his attempt to open the oil and makes eye contact again. 

"Need you," is the only explanation given or needed, and Jon grabs the little bottle and pops it open himself, drawing a small amount from it before returning it, and then moving his position back up to Tormund's stomach, oiled hand going to surround his husband's cock even before the man's fingers have made it back inside him. 

Tormund chuckles at Jon's urgency, though not nearly as deeply as if he too was not under its heady grasp, and Jon can only throw back, "need _you._ " 

He can barely manage any grip, though, when Tormund's pushes into him a moment later, one and then two slick fingers all too familiar with his depths and sensitivities, and all too pleased to make him forget how to be anything but vocal in the face of pleasure. 

It's not long before his groans simply become pleas of "please," a refrain echoed with every push of the fingers inside him. His voice mounts and grows shaky, and eventually - _finally_ \- Tormund withdraws his fingers. He rubs the tip of his cock against Jon's hole, and Jon rubs back, pushing, until Tormund positions himself in such a way that Jon's able to push down on him, sheathing his husband's lovely cock inside himself with a sort of comfort that comes only with practice. 

He leans forward, taking a willfully given kiss as Tormund pumps up into him with a strength and stamina Jon still finds spectacular, especially at times like these, and then leans back again to regain balance, a grin making a home in his expression as he grinds downward with his own strength. He holds his hands forward, reaching for Tormund's, and Tormund twines their fingers together, clasping one pair of hands, warmth and a bit of sweat between them, and pushes his other up to bring some order to Jon's hair, just enough to have their eyes really meet, before settling the fingertips around his neck. 

"How I like you like this, my pretty little crow. You know, you smile when we're in bed," Tormund remarks pleasantly, breathlessly, a hand giving the gentlest pressure at the sides of Jon's throat as Jon does the work of fucking down onto his husband. 

His nearly carefree smiling is short-lived, like any good thing. The door opens with its slight creak, and while Jon immediately thinks to at least reach for a blanket - then abandons the idea, because the closest one was made by Sansa in her youth and he doesn't feel right covering his cock with it - the sight of a Daenerys with blood draining from her face... _emboldens_ him in a strange way. He tightens his grasp on Tormund's hand, not immediately willing to look away from the door even with a small wrench of disgust rising in his stomach, but wanting to confirm that he has no desire of leaving his current position, regardless of what exactly is going to transpire. 

Tormund, ever respectful of Jon but with no care as to Daenerys or her particularities, takes his cues and pushes up again, drawing a grunt from Jon, at which the furious supposed queen takes her leave, door slammed behind her. A shaky, angry sigh departs Jon with a pressure on his lungs that surprises him, and Tormund's higher hand tightens at his throat again, pulling Jon's gaze gently down. 

"On me," he says, a soft growl now, his own eyes away from the door again, searching for Jon's and diffusing their tension. "Only I have you like this." 

Jon leans down into a kiss, only to find himself flipped onto his back with the kiss, as well as Tormund's presence inside him, still enduring. A gentle pumping rhythm begins again, pulling small, needy moans from Jon, who slings his arms around Tormund's back, even without any incentive needed for him to get ever closer. 

"Deal with her later, my love," Tormund murmurs at Jon's ear moments later, seemingly fighting himself to pause their kiss for even a second, a feeling to which Jon can deeply relate. "You led your people to battle and won. You deserve to at least come before you deal with the hell of politics again." 

Jon almost chuckles at the idea that he won - even the idea that the people at battle were truly his - but the point is made too genuinely, and he's too out of breath, to really make such an attempt.

Instead, he grabs at Tormund's lips with his own again, throwing one of his legs over one of Tormund's thighs for good measure and making his arms even tighter around the other man's shoulders. Tormund responds with ease and eagerness, kissing back and thrusting harder than before, both men relishing the closeness and the friction for the moments that the two last together, until Tormund's hand returning to Jon's cock has him spilling onto his stomach with a shiver and his head tossed back. Tormund slows his movements, but still follows barely a few thrusts later, enunciated grunts reverberating through both of them as he cums inside Jon.

He pulls away, leaving with a soft kiss even though Jon groans at the absence of him, and travels down Jon's body, kissing scars, then licking up their fluids and swallowing before returning for another kiss; he then settles next to Jon in bed, close enough to still be practically upon Jon, but not quite so close that one or both of them feels like he's overheating, an occurrence they've had to learn to prevent.

"A bath would be quite nice as well," Jon murmurs, and before he can say more, Tormund's slid off the bed and scooped him up, carrying him to the washroom adjacent to Jon's chambers.

"I can still walk, you know," Jon pretends to grumble when he's set down next to the tub, a piped appliance he's proud Tormund now knows how to operate, and is met with a grunt.

"Guess I didn't fuck you hard enough."

Jon laughs, then gulps, fixating his eyes on Tormund's hands as the hot water starts to flow into the large basin of the tub.

"There we go, more smiling," Tormund remarks, and Jon teases back.

"That your mission now?"

"Aye. I'll read your sisters in if I must. Hard enough task for a mere man, no matter what he's done." It's half a jest and half concern, and Jon can't muster a response that's anything but similar in tone.

"You, a mere man? I'd not say so." He stretches a hand up to Tormund's neck, bringing him down for another, gentle, kiss, and then steps back to put a foot into the tub, feeling both the water's warm temperature and the eyes that follow him. He slips his hand into his husband's and nods his head towards the tub, long hair bobbing around his face.

"Come on. Let's wash ourselves off."


End file.
